


spoiled/rotten

by lanceslot



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22727164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanceslot/pseuds/lanceslot
Summary: Serves as a kind of prequel to the relationship between these two as seen in Birds of Prey; intended to be as canon compliant as possible, also using Batman issues as a resource (and of course plenty of speculation).***"Could you tell me why you brought me in here?” Roman shook out his wrist.“I don’t know.” He muttered. “Boredom? And I guess… you looked how I feel.”“Which is?”“I don’t know.” Victor rustled his hand inside his pants pocket, pulling out a small cylindrical object. He grabbed at Roman’s hand again, putting the object in his palm.Roman flipped it over, wooden engraving around the edges and some worn out message in the middle. He pressed at the little silver button and out popped a blade. Ah. He weighed the knife in his hand.“Wanna go cut something up?” Victor bit at his lip, all dark stare and smile.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	spoiled/rotten

**Author's Note:**

> It's the year 2020, so I finally gave up on pretending to have dignity I guess. Seriously though, I've never posted any of my writing before so any feedback is good feedback! Please let me know about formatting issues or if there's anything I should've tagged but missed. I will update the rating and tags as I go.

“Roman, stop biting your nails.” His mother swatted at his hand, aggression dampened for the moment, in case of onlookers. “We’re in public.” She hissed. 

Roman returned his right hand into his lap, digging at his palm, nails pressing in deep. He gave a cursory glance around the ballroom before settling his sights up at the shiny crystal chandelier above his family’s table. Maybe if he stared at it long enough it would fall. Maybe then he could leave-- in an ambulance. Or maybe his mother could; he imagined the sound it would make, glass tinkling to the ground, smashing, crunching. The slick swish as one ambitious shard flew to pry at the over-taught skin of his mother’s throat. She’d choke and gasp, pawing at the blood that gushed out, looking to her son for help, eyes desperate and gleaming with panic. It would be beautiful, much more beautiful than the golden baroque tiles lining the ceiling at which he currently stared-- Roman was sure of it. A waiter approached the table. 

His mother ordered for him. She said his anxious stuttering got on her nerves, that he embarrassed her. She always said so. 

“Stop looking at the ceiling, Roman.” She gave him a pissy stare, biting out the words. “It makes you look  _ autistic  _ or something.” She whispered that word carefully, under her breath, not wanting anyone to hear the ease with which she lapsed out of her normally politically correct dialogue. Roman’s nails dug deeper. He wondered if he could make himself bleed.

From a distance, Roman could see Bruce Wayne, young and small, at the table to the front of the room. Thomas Wayne swept the child from his feet, lifting him to his shoulders. Together, they wandered the ballroom floor, Thomas politely interacting with his guests and Bruce watching on from his shoulders, innocent eyes wide with purposeless amazement. He could barely imagine what his mother thought, Bruce seemed a bit too old for such a stunt. They looked silly, stacked and wobbling. They looked happy. 

Martha did the rounds on her own, all graceful figure-eights and diligence. She approached his mother with open arms. 

“Mrs. Sionis!” 

Mrs. Sionis smiled back, an animal grin Roman was sure almost anyone should be able to see through. 

“Mrs. Wayne! You look gorgeous _. _ ”

Martha smiled, as radiant as the pearls around her neck. She was a professional at courtesy, never letting the veil slip, not even for a second. The smile seemed genuine. “Thank you, love. Green is our color tonight, wouldn’t you say?” Martha gestured to her own gown, a luminescent and light green, as she swished side to side delicately, a hint of reflective blue on her skirt catching beneath the glow of the crystal chandelier. 

Mrs. Sionis tried desperately to turn a growl to a purr as she spoke. “Yes,  _ absolutely  _ Martha.”

“We’ll talk soon, okay? You know how it is.” Martha gave a polite nod, eyes twinkling as if they were all in on some secret.

“Uh-huh.” 

Martha left the table, bunching the bottom of her dress in her pearly white gloves and sashaying to the next section of wealthy benefactors.

“Fucking bitch.” Mrs. Sionis snorted under her breath. “As if.” She fussed with her bodice, pushing up at her chest. “ _ Green is our color _ ,” she mocked in an agitated voice, “I know what she meant. Whatever. I wear it better.” She sat straighter in her chair, pushing her shoulders back and checking the lace at the back of her dark green corset. “As fake as her pearls.”

Roman considered poking the bear, against his smarter conscience. Besides, she couldn’t really hit him now. Not here. “I don’t know mother, she seems nice enough.” He kept his voice calm and level, knowing nonchalance would only provoke a greater ire from her.

“Why _ you _ \--” she froze as Thomas Wayne approached, giving him her toothy smile. She waved, twiddling her fingers. “Hi Brucie.” Bruce flinched at the soppy-sweet cry leaving her lips. If no one else saw through her smile, little Bruce seemed to see the fangs beneath. Good instincts. He tugged at his father’s hair, probably expressing his urge to flee.  _ Good instincts _ .

With Thomas gone, she turned her attention back to her son, gaze pointed. His only reprieve came as his father sauntered back to the dining table, a distant look glazed over his eyes. She turned to stare daggers at the new target. “Sweetie _.  _ Where have you been?”

Roman tuned out from their conversation, it always went rather the same anyway. He looked back at the ceiling before letting what his mother said get the best of him and looked back around the ballroom. As he turned left, he could feel eyes on him.

At a nearby table, sure enough, someone was staring. A boy-- or teenager, rather-- his own age, more or less. He had dark hair and darker eyes, and when he got caught staring, those eyes only lingered, intensifying into a grin. Roman blinked and tried to determine what exactly he had done wrong. Perhaps it was his suit? Mother always told him his taste was too “ _ flamboyant _ .” He had worn a red-ish blazer for this occasion, it had been a gift from the Waynes, ironically. His mother had fought him for it the whole way in the car. He only won by insisting it would help them all get into Gotham’s founding family’s good graces. The other boy continued to stare. Roman pointed at himself as if to ask,  _ me _ ? His response was a cocked head, gesturing for Roman to follow him. Christ. Well, no company could be worse than his current one.

“Excuse me mother, I have to go to the restroom.” His mother waved him away, too busy chewing into his father to care. Roman pushed in his chair and took a breath. 

The other boy was on his way out of the ballroom. When he arrived at the doorway he glanced back to see Roman following and grinned, slipping outside. 

He was headed to the bathroom, it seemed. Roman walked through the narrow marble corridor in time to see him kicking open the few stalls. 

“No one is in here.” He smiled playfully. “Wanna suck my dick?” He laughed to himself quietly before biting his thumb, as if telling an inside joke.

For a moment, Roman blanched.

“I’m sure that would make your mother  _ real _ mad.” He laughed again, covering his grin with his fist.

“I don’t think she needs any help with that.” Roman stared at the bathroom counter, pale granite anointed with seashells towards the back and in front of the mirror. He traced his middle finger around the sink and along the counter’s front edge. He felt something on his fingertip and turned his palm to look. Cocaine.  _ Dad _ .

“Well, it’s your loss,” he shrugged. “Zsasz. Victor Zsasz.” 

He held his hand out, as if to shake. When Roman reciprocated the gesture, however, he felt a tug on his wrist instead. 

Zsasz looked at his hand, raising his eyebrows at the white dust on it. “Classy.” If he had noticed the rosy nail imprints, he didn’t mention it.

“Yep.” Roman attempted to pull away his arm, but the boy only gripped tighter. He sighed and maintained composure, not feeling particularly threatened. “Zsasz… I haven’t heard of your family. What do they do?”

“Who the hell cares.” Zsasz sighed and let Roman’s wrist drop. “I guess nobody. Explains why I’m not _ really  _ one of you.”

“Well,  _ nobody _ , could you tell me why you brought me in here?” Roman shook out his wrist. 

“I don’t know.” He muttered. “Boredom? And I guess… you looked how I feel.”

“Which is?” 

“I don’t know.” Victor rustled his hand inside his pants pocket, pulling out a small cylindrical object. He grabbed at Roman’s hand again, putting the object in his palm. 

Roman flipped it over, wooden engraving around the edges and some worn out message in the middle. He pressed at the little silver button and out popped a blade. Ah. He weighed the knife in his hand.

“Wanna go cut something up?” Victor bit at his lip, all dark stare and smile.

*

They wandered the halls of the performing arts center slowly, in an oddly companionable silence, Victor seemingly casing the joint. It looked like this wasn’t his first rodeo, showing up armed and all. Eventually they arrived at a side corridor connecting to what Roman could only assume was a room for private events. It felt secluded, at least in comparison to the high ceilings of the main entrance and the expansive gold of the ballroom.

Adorning this hallway was a collection of suspiciously unguarded greco-roman statues and busts. Obviously, they were copies. A tell-tale yellow tinge spoke to their quality: alabaster, not marble. Pretty, but fake. It was almost too on the nose. Two masks hovered over the entrance to the hall, one smiling and one in a frown. Tragedy and Comedy. The smiling one reminded Roman of his mother. He wanted to smash it.

Zsasz ran his fingers over the statues as he walked to the end of the hall, occasionally giving one of the pieces a friendly grope. He stopped at the last statue, looking to Roman. “Do you want to do the honors, or should I?”

Roman stared at the small blade he still held in his hand. “I’m good for it.” He walked down the side of the hall opposite of Victor’s path. A couple kissing, a mother holding a baby, and a woman draped in some preciously thin sheet, her chest exposed to the air. He stared down the mother, but figured there wouldn’t be enough flat surface to carve anything clear into her. Indecent woman, then. On the nose. He could be on the nose, too. 

The dark eyed boy’s gaze bore holes into Roman’s back as he began to cut. He carved carefully down the woman’s chest, making sure to dig the letters deep enough to be legible. F-A-K-E. 

Victor laughed ever so slightly, motioning for the knife and taking it by the blade. Moving the handle of the knife into his fist he carved a mustache onto a random female bust. Spotting the fig leaf on a nearby male statue, he set to work carving a frowny face on the man’s inner thigh. He turned to Roman, bottom lip turned inside out in an exaggerated pout. “Do you think he’s shy?” Turning back, he planted a kiss on the fig leaf and reached to carve something on the statue’s ass.

“Are we done here?” Roman tilted his head and pointed to his Audemars watch. “Luckily, we’ve already missed the Wayne charity speech but… the opera is going to start very soon.”

Zsasz looked disappointed.

“You can continue, fine by me, but if I’m not there by the time the show starts, my skin is going to be the next thing that gets carved.” Roman silently prayed he was only kidding to himself and against his better judgment grabbed Victor by the wrist, hard and tight, pulling him hurriedly along.

*

The pair trotted into the opera house just as the lights were dimming. Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly, the only remaining seats were next to Roman’s mother. She looked away from him, presumably to avoid making a scene that could cost her that precious reputation of hers. 

As he sat down, quite predictably, she snarled in his ear. “Where the hell were you? With that  _ Zsasz  _ boy?”

He looked down to his nail worn palm, saying in a quiet sarcastic hush, “I thought you’d be proud of me, mother, making new wealthy acquaintances.”

“Oh please, look at his suit. You can tell his family barely made it onto the guest list.” His mother shook out her hair and put her nose back into the air, as if she were proudly displaying the work her cosmetic surgeon had done on her jowls.

The curtains opened and the opera began. 

“Ew.” Roman swallowed a gag. 

Victor looked to the stage and back at Roman, lips curling. “What?”

“Rigoletto. _Fuck_. I hate clowns.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This beginning chapter ended up way with way more exposition than I originally intended. Apologies, but I'm a big sucker for backstory and when I was reading up on these characters I found their similar upbringings to be a really interesting dynamic. I promise the next chapter is going to focus much more heavily on their actual relationship.


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